


The Date (a.k.a. Carnage)

by katya1828



Series: Domestic Discipline Goes to the Devil [6]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Bottom Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Crack, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Hurt Lucifer, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Whump, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Slash, eventually, piercifer, sort of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katya1828/pseuds/katya1828
Summary: It’s date night for Lucifer and Marcus Pierce. When an angelic hitman turns up to send Lucifer back to hell, everything goes horribly wrong. Violence, wing cutting, and sex ensue. Then things get much scarier, when they both realize they are suffering from disastrous amounts of “feels” for each other.Follows on from the other fic in the series, but just about works as a standalone too.
Relationships: Lucifer Morningstar & Marcus Pierce, Lucifer Morningstar/Marcus Pierce
Series: Domestic Discipline Goes to the Devil [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575871
Comments: 64
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago, and only just got around to editing. I've been a bit distracted from writing lately, for obvious reasons. I’m hoping my muse, when it returns, comes up with something a little more fluffy!! This is a bit cracky, but I do hope some of you enjoy ;)
> 
> I'm always happy to consider any prompt, though I can't promise I'll get to them that soon, particularly epic ones. If anybody has any prompts for short, fluffy one-shots (pairing - lucifer/anybody) then I'd be particularly grateful :) Lucifer!Whump with hurt/comfort always welcome.

Lucifer glanced through the window into the restaurant, ostensibly to check if his date had arrived yet. That he caught a flash of his own reflection proved a happy side-effect. He undid a second button at the collar of his shirt, adjusted a cufflink and smoothed his perfectly coiffured hair.

He was looking good; naturally, he was. And there was Lieutenant Marcus Pierce, sat in a candlelit booth toward the back of the middle-brow eatery, so awkward and stiff he might as well have a steel rod up his butt.

_Maybe later. If you’re a good boy, Cain._

At least Marcus wasn’t brandishing a bunch of flowers. Lucifer would’ve been morally obliged to stuff an entire rosebush up his arse, which still wouldn’t be punishment enough. He drew a swift lungful of car fumes and night air, ready for the plunge. An odd flip-flopping sensation in his tummy stopped him in his tracks.

That. Was. NOT. Nerves.

Absolutely not. Marcus’s attempts to woo him were hilarious and nauseatingly endearing, and nothing Lucifer couldn’t handle. Still, he _was_ going on a date with the man who invented murder. Anything could happen. His butterflies must therefore be explained by a detached interest and a smidgen of anticipation, because he honestly had no idea how tonight was going to turn out. Things had been so much simpler when Marcus just wanted to beat the shit out of him, and fuck him through the furniture…

The hand that grabbed the back of Lucifer’s collar came seemingly out of nowhere, yanking him away from the window with formidable force. A large be-cloaked figure manhandled him into the nearest grimy alley, before Lucifer had even gritted his teeth in a snarl.

He wrenched his attacker off him, hurling them away with such energy their skull should’ve cracked when they hit the opposite brick wall. Instead, his assailant used the momentum to spring back and serve a sweet right hook to Lucifer’s jaw.

“What the bloody hell?”

Lucifer touched his split lip, pulling his fingers away to blink at them in the gloom. Yup, that was blood. Had the Detective crashed his date? Was she hovering nearby? Not impossible, as she’d been distressingly über-protective over him, since he and Marcus had their noisy “fight and fuck” episode in the interrogation room.

Or, far worse, he’d been blessed with a visitation from one of his more unpleasant siblings.

The figure before him, who matched Lucifer in height and outshone him in sheer bulk and rippling muscle mass, dropped their cloak. A face similar to his own—though less well-proportioned, squeakily clean-shaven, and far less handsome—flashed him a pearly grin. “Hello, Lucifer. Still boning the humans, I see?”

“Hello, Michael.” Lucifer squared his shoulders, standing his ground. “Still not got laid since the beginning of time, I see?”

“Shut up, you filthy slattern.”

“I’ve missed these brotherly tête-à-têtes.” Lucifer edged closer, thrusting his face right in Michael’s. “Hold on, no I haven’t. Compared to you, conversation with Amenadiel is as droll as a soiree with Oscar Wilde, and _I_ should know. So, tell me, what this disagreeable surprise is in aid of, then bugger off.”

“For once in all eternity, you’re right. I’m not good with words. Let me tell you in _my_ language.”

Michael unleashed his wings. Lucifer, resolved to counter him, did the same. Unfortunately, that was the final time in the next few minutes that Lucifer managed to match his brother.

As he was smashed backward into the brick wall for the umpteenth time, Lucifer mused on how bloody unfair it was that Dad had diminished his powers when he’d sent him to hell. Back in the Silver City, Lucifer could have bested any of his brothers and sisters, save possibly Amenadiel at his peak. But since he’d fallen to become the devil? Ugh, even Uriel had overpowered him.

His ears ringing and seeing stars, Lucifer collapsed in a heap on the ground. Michael grabbed the front of Lucifer’s thoroughly ruined shirt and dragged him to his feet. Lucifer, gulping down a throatful of blood, seized the opportunity to headbutt Michael, which probably hurt him as much as his victim, but regained him a little of the upper hand. He kneed Michael in the nuts, finally shaking the bastard off. Michael tottered back, clutching his man-parts. Lucifer kicked his legs from under him.

Lucifer leaned forward and braced his hands on his thighs, wishing the world would stop spinning and that his damaged wings didn’t feel heavy as rock. “Unless you’ve literally come here for a bout of uncivilized fisticuffs,” he gasped, between panted breaths, “I’d dearly love to know why you’re ruining my date.”

Michael leaped up, recovering more quickly than was fair. He hurled himself at Lucifer, who he slammed back into the wall _again_. His fighting technique was as tedious as his command of language. He wedged his thick arm chokingly tight under Lucifer’s chin.

“I’m here _because_ of your date,” drawled Michael. “Cain took a hit out on you. And _I’m_ the hitman he chose—nothing but the best for his beloved Lucifer, so it seems.”

 _“_ What the f— _?”_ Lucifer hadn’t seen _that_ coming.

He didn’t see much else coming, either, for an indeterminable period of time. Michael set upon him mercilessly, until Lucifer stopped trying to fight back. He concentrated on countering the blows and curling in on himself, using his wings and arms to defend his squishiest parts.

Eventually, Michael hauled Lucifer onto his knees, one hand gripping Lucifer’s bicep as Lucifer struggled to keep upright. The weight of his wings wasn’t helping. Seeing as he’d scattered way too many divine feathers across this squalid human passage, he decided to get rid of them… and found he couldn’t. Michael had one fist clenched about Lucifer’s left wingtip, preventing Lucifer from retracting either wing. Letting go of Lucifer’s arm, he whipped out a knife. The serrated blade glinted in the dim light.

“I was going to send you straight back to hell,” said Michael. “But I think I’ll have a bit of fun first.” He scraped the blade gently, almost teasingly, around the base of Lucifer’s right wing.

Lucifer laughed, spitting out more blood. “You’re going to cut off my wings? I know there’s nothing new under the sun, but you could at least torture me in ways I’ve not tried myself.”

“Oh, but the night is young,” breathed Michael.

Lucifer’s next pithy retort withered on his tongue, as Michael hacked the blade deeper and began to saw off his wings.

***

Marcus turned his key in the latch, and slipped into his dark apartment. He felt a fool. Lucifer had stood him up. What did he expect? You don’t ask the devil out on a date, and expect it to go well. And yet… Lucifer had seemed up for it, in a wryly amused, Lucifer-ish fashion. Marcus didn’t feel as much pissed off about being left hanging, as disappointed and plain, old-fashioned sad.

He reached for the light switch and flicked it up—then startled, his jaw dropping lax.

There was a man chained to his wall. Someone had broken into Marcus’s apartment, hammered iron bolts into the masonry, and chained up an individual—who, beneath the blood and bruises, possessed a smoking-hot and decidedly familiar body.

_Lucifer._

Marcus’s mind raced in vain for an explanation. He blinked dumfounded, then launched forward to help. The way Lucifer hung limply in his bonds suggested he was unconscious.

Or maybe not.

As Marcus approached, Lucifer lifted his face, a glowering mask of rage. Blood streamed from a cut above his hairline, and his lower lip was slightly swollen. He bore his teeth, emitting a wounded, angry sound caught between a hiss and a moan.

“Hello, Pierce. I have to say—I’ve been on better bloody dates.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Is this your idea of romance?” yelled Lucifer.

Marcus had almost reached his erstwhile date, when a powerful hand grabbed him by the back of his stiff “date night” collar and hurled him across the room. He smashed into the wall with such force that more plasterwork crumbled behind him. His landlord was going to be pissed.

Although his ageing, mortal landlord was the least of Marcus’s worries. As he slid down to land heavily on his butt, he found himself staring up at the sharp and perpetually belligerent features of the Archangel Michael.

_Oh crap._

“Greetings, Cain. I decided to take your hit on after all. Would you like a goodbye kiss before I send him back to hell, or would you rather plunge the knife in yourself?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Lucifer’s chains rattled as he strained against them; blood trickled down his flanks, and Marcus’s stomach roiled as he glimpsed the top of the raw stumps of Lucifer’s wings. “I can’t believe I fell for your bullshit. Oh, you are _so_ going to pay for this—”

“Lucifer, no!” Marcus staggered to his feet. Michael looked on, his muscular arms folded and shown to fine effect in his sleeveless tunic. “You have to believe me, I didn’t want this. Well, actually—” With shaky fingers, he raked his hair. “I did take the hit out, but it was months ago, when I wanted to get rid of you so I could get close to Decker. And he said no!” He pointed toward Michael. “I never even paid him, so I took matters into my own hands, dumped you in the desert instead. And now—”

“Now you’ve discovered you enjoy torturing me yourself.” Lucifer yanked harder at his bonds. More plaster disintegrated, but the chains held fast.

“I don’t want that anymore. Not like this.” Lucifer couldn’t have looked any more furious, even if he’d had his devil face back and his eyes had flared red. Marcus turned to Michael, hands clasped in prayer. “Please, you’ve got to let him go.”

Michael snickered cruelly. “How touching. It’s a shame to cut this tragic love scene short, but—” He balled his mighty fist and punched Marcus in the stomach. Marcus crumpled. “But my motto’s “make war, not love.” What _shall_ I do with you, Cain? I know I can’t kill you, but there are so many excruciating ways to torture you. What haven’t you tried yet? How about burning?”

“Oh, come on,” sniped Lucifer, “you’re going to have to do better than that. He’s gone the whole hog with a volcano and everything.”

“Hmmm, okay.” Michael stroked his lantern jaw, as Marcus writhed miserably on the living room rug. “How about a slow twisting knife in the gut? Poisoning? Castration? Digging your heart out with a spoon?” Michael cocked his head to one side. “Where do you keep your kitchen utensils, Cain?”

Marcus screwed his eyes tight, struggling to regain his puff, to get up, to battle back. He discerned a faint chink, a heavy footfall… and then a shocked cry and the resounding clatter of breaking crockery and splintering woodwork.

His eyes flew wide, greeting the site of Lucifer, shirtless and with his wings spread in all their luminous glory. Lucifer stalked over toward Michael, who was lying amid the splintered remains of Marcus’s kitchenette.

“He keeps his kitchen utensils in the kitchen, you moron,” said Lucifer, who was clearly responsible for forcibly introducing his brother to this particular area of Marcus’s living space.

“Your wings!” Michael jumped back up, while gawking at Lucifer. “They came back.”

“They have a nasty habit of doing that.” Lucifer shrugged. “One of Dad’s little jokes, I believe. Now, are you going to flap off, or does this his have to get _really_ nasty?”

Michael whipped out a demon blade. “Father will be laughing even harder when I send you back to hell.”

“Will you lot _please_ change the record?” Lucifer launched his offensive first, hurling himself at his brother. They crashed to the floor, Lucifer on top. The impact stunned Michael just long enough for Lucifer to wrench the blade from his grip and cast it, skittering, across the floor.

Then Michael shoved Lucifer off, sprung up and grabbed for his throat.

“Marcus?” gasped Lucifer, pawing at Michael’s meaty hands. “A little help would be appreciated.”

***

Overpowering Michael took teamwork and a fair amount of collateral damage. Marcus’s apartment and furnishings took the worst hit, closely followed by Marcus himself, who suffered the indignity of multiple fatal wounds inflicted by Michael using Marcus's own stainless-steel kitchen utensils.

Eventually, though, Lucifer pinned Michael to the splintered remains of Marcus’s bedroom door, holding the demon blade at his brother’s throat. Poor Marcus lay in a pool of his own blood behind. A bread knife wedged through his heart, he was superficially dead but doubtless about to bounce back. Hopefully in time to witness the fruit of their joint labours. If not, Lucifer would enjoy the moment enough for both of them.

He beamed in the face of Michael’s snarling wrath. “This is interesting, isn’t it? I wonder if Dad really _did_ want you to kill me? Not so sure now, huh?” He nicked the blade into Michael’s flesh, dangerously close to his quivering lifeblood. “Only one way to find out. Let’s see if this blade sends you to heaven or hell. I’ve heard they’re searching for a new CEO at the latter, a role that would suit you down to the ground. I might even pop down and apply a few chains, just to make sure you obey the terms of your contract.”

“Fine.” Michael tautened body sagged beneath Lucifer’s grasp. “I'll go... I'll leave. I won't come back, I give you my word.”

“Since when were you an angel of your word, Michael?” Lucifer nicked Michael’s skin again, enjoying the teardrop of blood that trickled down the archangel’s throat.

“Fair point.” Michael proffered a tight smile. “But do you _really_ want to be responsible for slaughtering another of your brothers?”

A lump formed in Lucifer’s throat; his every sinew wound painfully tight. He knew Michael was goading him, and retained just enough common sense not to let his tidal-wave of guilt drown him and throw him off his guard. He wished—oh, how he wished—he had his devil face. He had to trust to his own angelic features to convey suitable sentiments of darkness and rage. He withdrew the knife from Michael’s throat and stepped back, keeping the blade raised and primed.

“Just go,” he spat.

With a thunderous “this isn’t over” scowl, Michael spread his wings and obeyed. Lucifer sighed, retracted his own wings, and turned to Marcus, who was gingerly dragging the bread knife from his chest.

“That was memorable,” said Lucifer. “Mugging for starters, carnage for the main, and more blood than there’s ever been in communion wine. I can’t _wait_ to find out what you’ve got planned for dessert.”


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus accepted the hand Lucifer stretched down, and let him draw him up to his feet. The room slowly stopped rotating around him, and Marcus regained his poise. Lucifer was shirtless, bloodied and bruised and with his hair an un-styled mass of curls. He looked nearly as wrecked as Marcus’s apartment. Though probably less wrecked than Marcus looked himself.

He scanned around, inwardly groaning at the bills from his landlord and the cost of replacing pretty much every piece of furniture and household equipment he owned. How the heck _did_ his toaster end up dangling by a wire from his broken ceiling fan? His attention slammed back soon enough to Lucifer, his gaze drifting down that taut body to those tight tailored trousers, low-slung about his slender hips. He must’ve been feeling better, because all his blood rushed straight to his cock.

To hell with the apartment and with goddamned St. Michael. He’d still a chance to turn this evening around. At least his bathroom and his bedroom were intact. He reached up and brushed a strand of Lucifer’s hair from where the dried blood had stuck it to his brow.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” he said. “When I took out the hit, I didn’t even know you.” Lucifer’s hand tightened around his; and shit, had Lucifer just brushed his thumb, kind of fondly, across the back of Marcus’s hand?

“I actually believe you,” said Lucifer. “If you’d understood quite how stunningly attractive I was, you’d have warned him off the face.”

Marcus, wondering if he was pushing his luck, craned up and very gently kissed the spot he’d just touched, where Lucifer’s cut had already pretty much healed. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “You still look pretty good to me.”

“You wear being murdered multiple times pretty well yourself. And I suppose that’s enough punishment for your past misdemeanours… for now.” His breath ruffled Marcus’s hair and sent delicious shivers down Marcus’s spine. He narrowed his eyes to inquisitorial slits. “So, what _have_ you got planned next?”

“I want to wash off all this blood.” Marcus began unbuttoning his shirt, a slow process with one hand, as his drying blood had welded fabric to both flesh and chest hair. He transferred his other hand to Lucifer’s butt, tugging him closer still. Lucifer arched a brow in question. “It’s gonna be a squeeze, but I think there’s room in my shower cubical for two.”

***

There was, but only just. When Lucifer dragged aside the shower curtain to squeeze in naked beside him, Marcus feared the scale of his erection alone might send one or the other of them tumbling out into the bathroom.

Okay, maybe Marcus was flattering himself, but only a bit.

“How bijou,” said Lucifer. “That’s a polite way of saying your apartment is squalid and cramped,” he added, when Marcus didn’t deign to reply.

“ _Your_ brother ruined it,” murmured Marcus, only half-joking. “So, you can shut up about it.”

“Really? How’re you going to make me?” Lucifer sneered suggestively, his rock-hard length now wedged against Marcus’s hip. Marcus’s body turned to ice and flame at once. His power shower pummelled them both relentlessly, and so much blood spiralled down the plughole it resembled that scene from Psycho, but in glorious technicolour. Still, Marcus was long accustomed to blood—particularly his own. Despite the wounds that still patterned his body, and the fast-healing ones on Lucifer’s, he’d rarely been so turned on.

He grasped Lucifer’s face and pulled him into the kiss he’d craved all evening. In return, Lucifer devoured him, his tongue slick and skilful, the fusion of wetness and heat overwhelming. Lucifer tasted of hot blood, and intoxicatingly, wondrously of _him._

Through the years, Marcus had sometimes proven an awkward lover, but with Lucifer, the path forward seemed simple. Lucifer’s every move reciprocated Marcus’s carnal desire. He buried a fist in Marcus’s hair, the twist painful, but Marcus didn’t care; Lucifer made him _feel_ something other than the darkness and the pain. He awakened rotted corners of Marcus’s heart he’d believed were long lost. He yearned to make Lucifer _feel_ just as powerfully as he did, and even with that, they seemed to be moving beyond just the pain and the punishment.

As the kiss wound on, he fondled Lucifer’s butt, enjoying how Lucifer’s muscles clenched and hardened, crushingly powerful. They rutted against each other, and the immediate pleasure of it all annihilated those troublesome questions about how they got here, and where the heck they were going with all this. All the while, Lucifer plundered Marcus’s mouth till his breath grew short, starry pinpricks reeling in front of his eyes.

Lucifer sucked on Marcus’s lip, biting down softly before releasing him to trail his fingers down Marcus’s throat. He skittered lower, tracing through the crystal streams of running water, till he lingered over the gash above Marcus’s heart, still bleeding and only partially knitted. Marcus hissed; it still smarted.

“How artless,” Lucifer prodded the raw, ripped flesh. “What can one expect from the Angel of War, mind.”

Marcus might’ve protested, had Lucifer not slid his shiny wet lips down to replace his fingertips. Having his wounds _literally_ licked wasn’t Marcus’s top kink. Still, Lucifer managed to make almost anything alluring. Lucifer lathed his tongue across Marcus’s chest, setting his flesh tingling and fizzing and any remnant of pain fading. Hmmm, maybe he had some residue of an angel’s healing power, after all. Lucifer’s clever fingers roamed ever lower, teasing and grasping Marcus, until he whined with need.

He sensed the vibrations of Lucifer’s laughter. Then Lucifer was on his knees, barely fitting into the small square floor of the shower, taking Marcus deep. Lucifer’s mouth felt _amazing,_ and the tricks he knew with that tongue… Ngggn! That itch of need built and built, veering between bliss and agony, drowning any fading pain from his wounds. When Lucifer withdrew before finishing him off, he whimpered, desperate. Lucifer glided back up to reclaim his lips. He tasted salt and copper… and Marcus was dying for release.

He wrenched himself from the increasingly bruising kiss. “Prick tease,” he panted. It was Lucifer’s turn to gasp and moan, as Marcus grasped both their lengths in his large palm and began to pump.

“Now I remember the sole attraction of… _Gnng!_ … miserable loners like you.” Lucifer panted, his eyes rolling toward the heavens, his glistening face warped into a decorous portrait of wanton abandonment. “Loners are always… _Ah!_ … so talented at hand-jobs.”

Marcus silenced him with a kiss that lasted even longer than their previous one. Coupled with the scrub of Lucifer’s steely flesh against his, it proved all too much. Marcus erupted at one with Lucifer, their pleasure spurting hotter than the scorching, steaming shower.

“Decent enough dessert.” Lucifer thudded his forehead down against Marcus’s shoulder, twining both his arms around Marcus’s neck. He grasped Marcus’s still-rigid cock. “I want seconds.”

***

It took Marcus a pitifully long time—nearly five whole minutes—to regain the stamina to go at it again. He then resumed usual service, complying with Lucifer’s request by slamming him face-first against the wet tiles of the shower cubicle, and ramming straight in. Marcus stilled a moment, and Lucifer squeezed about the intrusion, drawing Marcus deeper. Warm water lashed over his hair, his tightly screwed eyes. He tasted it on his parted lips, a distant backdrop to the delicious sensation of having Marcus fuck him.

Lucifer verged on delivering his usual snide, pushy-bottom encouragement to Marcus, when something terrible struck him.

Having sex with the devil was _not_ supposed to be usual.

Yet here he was, at the concluding end of a date—albeit an unconventional one—with his “usual” lover entering him from the rear, in the “usual” fashion. Until recently, Lucifer had at least “usually” taken charge of scenes like this. He snatched at sarcasm to quell his horror. “Have you _died_ back there? Thank you, Dad. Fabulous time to break the curse.”

Marcus’s fingertips gouged into Lucifer’s hip. “Shut up,” he murmured.

“You’ve the _wit_ of a cadaver.”

“Shut up.”

“Stop it, you charmer. You’re all talk, aren’t you?”

Lucifer’s lines felt clunky, as if he couldn’t handle this. Like he was getting desperate. As if… Oh, but now Marcus was thrusting deeper, impaling him. Lucifer’s faculties disintegrated enough for him to really not care how “usual” having sex with Marcus had become. Then something else truly shocking occurred. Marcus licked the along ridge of Lucifer’s ear and whispered, “This still counts as one of the best damn nights of my life.”

Despite the matter that he’d only the friction of the slippery tiles against him, Lucifer had been accelerating toward climax again. Marcus’s words niggled enough to pull him from the brink. How had it come to this? This fool, Cain, was acting for all the world like he was in love with him. As for Lucifer, if he reciprocated anything, which he _might_ , he wasn’t convinced he wanted to. Then there was the Detective. How did his sentiments toward her—and all those lovely unfulfilled “moments”— fit in with all this?

Still, he might as well enjoy being fucked toward oblivion, so Lucifer gave up on the “feels.” Marcus nibbled and bit at the back of his neck and pummelled him ever harder, until Lucifer’s body pitched toward orgasm once more.

Lucifer reached for his own cock. “Allow me.” Marcus grabbed Lucifer’s wrist and pinned it behind him, then wrapped a fist about Lucifer’s dick. Lucifer whined with delight, his own fists balling, his every muscle turning rigid as Marcus worked him. He _despised_ how he let Marcus control him like this; conversely, a large part of him desired it about as deeply as he’d ever desired anything. Much like this was apparently one of the best nights of Cain’s long life.

_Bugger._

Lucifer’s climax shattered through him, searing his senses as his heartbeat rocketed. Marcus came too, with a loud grunt and three juddering thrusts. They collapsed, then, to the shower floor, slippery and boneless in each other’s arms.

***

When Marcus awoke the next morning in his own bed, sunlight streaked between a gap in the curtains. He’d an arm thrown over Lucifer, who was curled against him, breathing heavily, still fast asleep. Beneath the coverlets, they were both butt naked.

Caught in the sleepy hinterland between slumber and wakefulness, Marcus didn’t move, save rubbing his cheek against Lucifer’s soft hair. He felt a smile tug the edges of his lips as he enjoyed the moment. He thought casually, _This is nice. I could get used to this. I’d like to wake up like this every day._

His stomach clamped tight. His wakeful senses rushed back to him, and his heart leaped up into his throat. What was he thinking? Not only did he no longer want to die, he wanted to wake up each morning cuddling the devil. Lucifer Morningstar. The _actual_ devil.

“Shit,” mumbled Marcus. He was really in trouble now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) If anbody has any ideas for future installments, I'm always open to prompts, esp. as my muses have been acted decidedly oddly lately!! I've already had some aweome ideas from KalChloe1 that I hope to start work on soon (Thank you!!!) 
> 
> I'm also now on twitter, if anybody wants to chat lucifer and fic @katysue1828 :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


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